


Bond and Blade

by Unstoppablei



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Found Family, M/M, Non-Inquisitor OC, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character(s), Sisters, Story spans all three games, characters to be added as they appear, posting in a fit of inspiration, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unstoppablei/pseuds/Unstoppablei
Summary: All Aila has ever done is protect her little sister Merri. Now Merri is gone, and the Conclave is Aila’s last best chance at seeking vengeance.All Maxwell Trevelyan has ever done is drink and flirt and ruin his family’s good name. The Conclave is his last chance to prove himself before he loses everything.Then The Temple of Sacred Ashes explodes.Maxwell emerges with a green mark on his hand and the title Herald of Andraste, and Aila is found under the rubble, unmarked and unharmed, herald of nothing. No one can seem to decide if the handsome playboy and the mysterious elf are allies or enemies . . .  and meanwhile an enemy more dangerous than Corypheus beckons Aila to her inevitable death.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Original Female Character/Solas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Bond and Blade

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I've had in my head for a couple years now, and I typed up a prologue in a fit of inspiration/pandemic boredom last night. Let me know if it piques your interest!

Aila adjusted the pin on her lapel, the one that was wrought to look like blooming crystal grace. Her hair was in a braided bun, fashionable loops of hair carefully structured to hide the tips of her ears affixed to her head with painful adhesive. Her dress well made but simple, her jewelry tasteful and light. Everything about her was forgettable, and it had done its job.

She was through the doors. At last, she was at the Conclave.

The tension in the beautiful room was high. Mages knotted together in tight circles on one side, and Templars stood in loose packs on the other. Both glared distrustfully at the other, while nobles swirled like schools of colorful fish through the middle. It was cold enough that some ladies left their furs on, the ceiling high and vaulted, the floors polished stone. She could barely believe it was the ruin she last stood in a decade ago, guarded by fanatical dragon worshippers.

Aila sipped her wine as she drifted along the edges of the room, peeking through doors and making note of the exits by habit. She kept her eyes peeled for telltale flame-red hair. Her most recent intel had Leliana still down the mountain finishing preparations, but she had to be wary, and quick. The last thing she needed was the Left Hand of the Divine asking too many questions. Asking why she was here. Why she was alone.

A man stumbled into her, his glass held high. A splash of wine started to fall, but Aila was no longer in its path.

“Excuse me,” she said, with all the coldness of nobility. “Watch where you’re going.”

The man stared at the wine on the floor. “I must be drunker than I thought,” he said in a cultured accent. “I could have sworn you were right here. I know it because the only sound inside my head was _oh shit, one more dress I’m going to have to pay for_.” He looked up and suddenly smiled, a handsome, carefree smile. “You’re quick.”

“Yes, well,” Aila said, edging away, her own drink still clutched in one hand. “Let’s be glad we’re not both soaked and think no more of it.”

“You must be Henrietta Grace,” he said abruptly, looking at her pin. His own lapel bore a leaping stag made of pure onyx. He held out a hand.

Her mind raced, searching for the family that bore that crest. “And you must be Trevelyan the younger,” she said with a gracious smile. The Trevelyans were a powerful family in the Marches. She would have to tread carefully.

He held out a hand. “Maxwell Trevelyan, at your service.”

Aila took his hand in a delicate, ladylike grip and dipped a curtsy. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“It is indeed,” he said, his eyes shining, “especially as we just rode together last week, didn’t we, _Henrietta._ ”

Aila froze. Trevelyan still hand her hand, tightly enough that she couldn’t take it back without a struggle, though his smile was mischievous. He seemed to be looking at her as an interesting specimen that he could interrogate and then discard, never to think of again.

She could work with that.

“I heard you had taken ill and would be unable to attend,” he continued conversationally, still not letting go of her hand. “I sent flowers to your room.”

She gave him a brittle smile. “I got better.”

“Much better,” he said, finally dropping her hand and letting his gaze travel up and down her body. They lingered on her chest before moving up to consider her hair. “Lovely girl, Henrietta is, but sadly it’s all on the inside.” He studied her tanned skin and gray eyes. "Let me guess, one of your parents is from Rivain? Or Antiva. And maybe one's from . . . Starkhaven? I'm usually really very good at this."

Ah. He was one of _those_.

“So what is your name?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. He really was handsome, with shaggy brown hair tamed into a perfect coif and a jaw that could cut stone.

She smiled sweetly. “Henrietta.”

He laughed. “So tell me,” he said, slinging an arm around her and bringing his mouth close to her ear, “why I shouldn’t call the guards to have you thrown out right now.”

She considered flirting her way out of it – she was sure he’d be easy to lead down a dark hallway and stash in a closet somewhere, drunk as he was – but today was too important for games.

“Well,” she said, her voice breathy and conspiratorial, “you could do that, but then I’d have to tell everyone how I just saw you pissing in the orchids Duke Elton brought as a gift for Divine Justinia. Delicate things, orchids. Came all the way from Rivain. I doubt they’ll survive with that much alcohol in them.”

He cleared his throat nervously, eyes suddenly darting around the room. “They’ll never believe you.”

“The vase is still in there. I’m sure there’s a spell some mage can whip up to trace bodily fluids back to their owner. Now what would dear daddy think of that? You have a reputation, as an envoy of—”

“Yes, yes, I get it,” he said, stepping away from her with a scowl. “You’re no fun.”

“I get that a lot,” she said dismissively. “Are we done here?”

“Just two questions,” he said, holding up a finger. “One: _Do_ you know where the real privy is?”

She didn’t, but she picked a closed door across the room and pointed to it. “And the second?”

He grinned. “You going to finish that?”

Aila handed him her drink, and, peace offering in hand, he shot her a wink and wavered to the distant door on slightly unsteady feet.

She watched him go, and when he was out of sight she sighed and smoothed the front of her dress. That was close. She didn’t have much time.

Carefully she removed the crystal grace pin and placed it on the table. Then she straightened her shoulders and headed right to the last place she ever thought she’d go: The last bastion of loyal Templars in all of Thedas.

She tapped an armor-covered shoulder. “Knight-Captain Genwalt?” she asked. “We need to talk.”

He half-turned and raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Because I have information for you, and believe me, you’re going to want to listen to what I have to say.”

He turned to face her fully, his face interested. “I believe that introd – do you hear that?”

Aila looked around. A high-pitched whine suddenly seemed to emanate from everywhere. It grew steadily louder, and in moments it went from barely audible to deafening. People started to scream. Goblets and stained-glass windows exploded, spraying glass sharp as blades.

“Get down!” Genwalt yelled, instinctively shielding her with his body. Aila covered her ears. The sound was excruciating. The floor bucked under her feet like an untamed horse. The ceiling cracked, raining stone and dust down.

 _‘Merri,’_ she thought, suddenly missing her sister desperately. _‘Merri, I wish you—’_

The whine turned to a roar, and everything went white.


End file.
